Goodbye to Ribbons: Based on a true story, a powerful and thought-provoking novel, set deep in rural Britain after the close of WWII

By W.S. Ishida

Goodbye to Ribbons is a historical biography that follows the incredible true story of a remarkable woman growing up in rural Britain in the 1950s. 

Rosie only wants one thing-her mother's love. But for reasons she is yet to discover, her popular, bolshy,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Faux Crow Publishing
• Release date: Mar 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781838195328

Book preview

Part I

My Marvellous Mother

1

The Good Little Girl

Aged 3 (1948)

If I only had one thing going for me throughout my life, it was being as tough as a pair of old leather boots that’d been left out in the rain too long. You see, I'd quietly put up with things that most others wouldn't. And so even though they thought I might never walk again, I listened and I did as I was told—just like a good little girl should.

Keep your head up and always look forward, they kept telling me, when at 3 years old I had to learn to walk for the second time in my life.

And it wasn’t long before I was able to straighten my knees. And a short while after that, hobble about with the help of a frame. Then, after five long bedridden-months spent alone in a dark room, the day eventually came when it was all over and I could once again stand on my own two feet.

The old clothes peg was finally removed from the curtains and the lights turned on. I was jiggling with excitement knowing that I was going to be with my family again, that I was going home. They dressed me up in the clothes I came in with, the only ones that weren't hospital issue. Then I waited.

I remember it so clearly, sitting on that bed. The sunshine warming my back. My pale skinny legs swinging free as the excitement tickled away at the inside of my belly.

I heard her first—a distant voice booming through the corridors. Then there was the odd moment of silence, which was when the staff got their turn to speak before she started up again.

My legs stopped swinging.

Uh yes, she's just in here, we urm—

But before they could finish, in she stomped. A big-bosomed, bolshie woman with waves of thick, light-brown hair and the most striking red lipstick you ever did see. She stood towering over me, swamped in a lavish fox-fur coat, hands on hips.

My tiny fingers gripped at the bedsheet.

Right. Come on then. We ent got all day, she said with a weariness, as if we’d already outstayed our welcome.

I didn't reply.

I didn’t even move.

Come on. Let's not hang about. Don't want to keep these busy people waiting, do yuh.

I looked to the doctor, who gave me a nod and an over-practiced smile. But all I could do was pull the sheet up from the bed and hold it in front of my face, my eyes barely peeping over the top. The doctor looked to the woman and then back to me. He wanted to say something but clearly wasn't sure of himself. She often had that effect on people.

It's… it's just your mother, she’s come to take you home, Rosemary. You… you do want to go home, don’t you?

Of course I wanted to go home, more than anything in the world. However, something just didn’t feel right.

All I can think of now, is perhaps the picture I’d built up in my mind over those last five months wasn’t marrying-up to the one who stood towering over me there and then.

2

Earliest Memories

People often like to ask what your earliest memory is, but how can we ever really be sure. It’s always so hazy when you’re young, and then of course you have other people’s memories and their stories thrown into the mix. Then soon enough things get all clouded up and before you know it you’re not really sure you can believe your own mind anymore.

I was only 3 years old when I went to stay at that small hospital in Cromer. I don’t remember all that much before it. It was the rheumatic fever that landed me there, so I was told. They reckon I got it by absorbing dampness up through my knees while playing in the sand heap. And so at the age most kids were getting to master their legs, I went back to being pushed around in a pram.

I remember my hospital room always being so gloomy.

We told you already, the light’s no good for it, they’d say as they re-fastened the curtains. But the curtains didn't just keep the light out, but also any chance of having company in the empty bed next to mine. After all, who in their right mind would be able to handle being shut away like that in the darkness every hour of the waking day.

Occasionally they’d wheel me down Cromer Pier for some fresh air, and that would be as much as I saw of the outside world for a good while. They’d push me along, the wheels buddum, buddumming across the wooden slats all the way to the very end. I mostly liked to watch the gulls wheeling through the sky. Their cries blocking out the heavy sighs of the sea coming up through the slats, as it swayed non-stop back and forth between the pier’s dark stained legs.

Looking out at the sea caused me to have funny feelings at times. I didn’t like the way it went on forever and ever, how there was no end in sight. A nurse once told me not to worry, that even though I couldn't see it yet, if I kept going I’d eventually get to Holland.

And you know something else, if you just keep on going without ever changing your course, you’ll go all the way around and eventually end up exactly where you started from, she said smiling down at my unblinking face. Now isn't that something to think about.

3

The Pub Singer

I never had no fancy dreams like the other kids of being a movie star, a singer, an astronaut or even a famous figure skater. All I ever wanted was to be like my mother. And for her to like me.

Salt of the earth she is, they’d say.

Do anything for anyone, others would tell me.

A real good’un, and that’s not for arguing with.

Everybody loved her, and even in the small town of East Rudham where I spent most of my childhood, everybody was a whole lot of people, so I had no choice but to believe it. But if that was the truth, it left me with only one answer—that it was me, that I was the problem.

I was born on Monday the 1st of May 1945, the day after Hitler killed himself and the day before the German forces in Italy surrendered. With the war all but done, there was a positivity in the air and a feeling of a new beginning for most folks.

When I arrived into the world I already had two older brothers, Karl and Billy, and another three brothers and a sister still to come. We grew up in a tiny village deep in the Norfolk countryside—all of us crammed into a busy council house that seemed to shrink every year.

We were lucky to have a bit of a garden. With seven kids under one roof, it acted like the release spout on our disgruntled pressure cooker that would rattle away on top of the paint-chipped stove. The garden was split into two by a row of conifers, and although both bits were at the rear of the house we still called them the front garden and the back garden. The front garden being the grassy lawn right outside the back door. Most of this was taken up by the junk-filled shed and the two old caravans—where we stored all the junk that we couldn’t fit in the shed. Behind the conifers was the back garden where we had the old veg patch, the compost heap, the bonfire pit and then at the very end our rather unique double outhouse that my dad built with his own two hands.

The back garden was mostly where you’d find my dad, Trevor. It was a place he could get away from it all and go for a quiet smoke. He was a tall, rangy man, not much one for words, preferring a grunt if he could get away with it. His face thin and weathered, as were his hands that never seemed to scrub up much better than grimy. He worked his whole life as a farm labourer but wore a shirt and waistcoat to work every single day, as well as his beige flat cap that hid his thinning light-brown hair. Despite being as quiet as a dormouse hiding from a cat, I always knew when he was at home by the familiar smell of stale tobacco smoke and faint whiff of oil. Everything was kept well oiled at our house, there was never a squeak or groan to be heard from hinge nor spindle. In fact, there were only four things I ever remember seeing in his hands. If he was outdoors, it was a rolled-up cigarette and the narrow-spouted oilcan. If he was indoors, it was the newspaper. And if one of us kids had got wrong, it was the old leather belt that despite my best efforts I was no stranger to.

By no stretch of the imagination was I a naughty kid—none of us were, really. We never set out to do anything bad, never had no ill-intentions, yet the belt still managed to find the back of our legs on a regular basis. I feared my dad but never blamed him for the punishments. I was always able to see our blame in the matters. I soon understood that if something got broke, even accidentally, then someone got the belt. Sometimes, it would be everyone who happened to be in the room of the wrongdoing, that way he knew the real culprit wouldn’t get away with it. But a day or two after the pain had faded, it was forgotten and things carried on as normal like they always did.

Later in my childhood, when I was able to process things better, there was one thing I couldn’t forget, one thing that I struggled to get past, and that was the way I’d treated my mum the day she came to pick me up from the hospital. I cursed myself for it because I could only think this was the reason, this was the cause, this was the seed from where it all started. How must it have felt, to be shunned in front of all those people by her own flesh and blood, by a being that she made, that came from her, that was part of her? But little did I know, or could I’ve known, the poisoned seed had already been sown before my existence had even come to be.

I tried my damnedest to make things right and win back her love—that famous love that all others got so easily and for free. I accepted it was my fault and forgave her time and time again for the way she was and the things she said, the things she did. I lied for her, betraying myself and my own family. I even covered for her when she didn’t have the will or the want to do it for herself. I gave her everything and got nothing back, and all cos I accepted the blame. But for some reason, what I never thought about was that in those five months that her infant daughter had been sick in the hospital, my marvellous mother hadn’t visited her once.

Of course, I knew she was busy. It’d be impossible not to be with a house full of kids and the regular visitors and whatnot.

We were never short of having random folks stay at ours, so much so for a time I actually thought we ran some kind of guesthouse. I believe it all started when the war was on. With London taking the brunt of the German bombing raids, the call soon went out for people living deeper in the countryside to take in the evacuees. And my mother, with a love for anything to do with London and never being one to say no, stepped forward.

Many of the evacuees who stayed with us, still came by for visits long after the war was wrapped up, such as Linga-Linga-Low-Low as us young’uns called her—her real name being Belinda Lowell. My mum knew the Lowell’s from way back when she used to work as a pub singer down in London. It was Belinda’s aunt who ran one of the pubs that my mum had a regular spot at. I don't know all that much about my mum’s life down there. From what little she told me I think she had a right good time of it though and always longed to go back one day to recapture it all. She had quite the pipes on her and the reputation to match. It seems she was doing rather well for a young lady in those times, on good money and getting well known on the circuit. But then the war broke out and it all came to an abrupt end. She tried to stick at it for a while but was eventually left with no choice but to trundle her way back to sleepy old Norfolk.

It was a year or so after that when young Belinda had to follow the same path. When Bell arrived to find nothing but fields, farms and simple country folk, she wasn’t best pleased to be there either. She told me one time that she found it all too slow and quiet away from London, so spent most of the early days crying her eyes out. However, my mum looked after her well enough by all accounts, really took her under her wing. Then years later when the war was done, Bell chose to come back of her own willing to look after us kids in the summers, and that's how I come to know her.

She was like our nanny, taking us kids out and about all the while. Us older ones walking or toddling and little Perry (or Little Pea, as we called him) being pushed in the pram. I once asked why she did it, why she wanted to come up to Norfolk and look after a whole bunch of snotty kids for her summer. She said it was because she got lonely down in London—can you imagine? Lonely in London? Working in a busy pub in the biggest city in the country?

I like it in Norfolk, she said, I got a family ‘ere. It makes me feel part of something, dunnit.

She said sometimes you get a liking for things that are different or opposite to what you’re used to. She liked the way everyone knew you and took the time to say hello. Also, how there was always someone looking out for you and someone for you to look after whether young or old—a real sense of togetherness. But I guess she didn't really get to see the warts-an-all version, mind. I certainly wouldn't have bet against her singing quite a different tune if she had.

4

The Good Samaritan

AGED 7 (1952)

It wasn't just evacuees the war sent to Norfolk, there were also a lot of POWs. You'd have thought they would've sent them back home to their families afterwards, but instead many were kept on. They had them working on the farms in the summer and then shovelling snow off the roads and hedges in the winter, booking them in and out just like you would a library book.

They were mostly solemn souls but hard workers to boot. Seeing them quietly drift about their toils like tame ghosts, I realised it doesn't matter what side you were on, good or bad, war would always have its way with you whether you liked it or not. And they certainly didn’t seem like the evil killers the radio and papers would have you believe. I remember them being in people’s houses at times, fixing things up. My mum would even make them a cup of tea or sometimes send me out to give them some home-baked goods. They were always very grateful and gentle and looked so sad when they had to go back to wherever it was they kept them.

My mum loved to bake and often gave away more than half of what she made. During the winters, when the snow came down especially hard, my older brothers, Karl and Billy, would be sent out on the bike to get some yeast. On their return, she'd then spend the rest of the day baking bread for all the neighbours.

Oh, bless her! people would say when us kids arrived with the freshly baked warm parcels. She ent just a pretty face and a bright smile, is she, eh.

She's the Good Samaritan all right, your mother is. You're very lucky children, y’know.

I remember one elderly lady who lived by herself was brought to tears because she was so happy. In fact, she was so overcome, she could barely finish her sentences. Your mother… your mother… oh look at me now… was as much as she managed each time, before having to dab at her eyes.

Even though the words weren’t for me, they’d leave me feeling ever so proud and all warm and fuzzy inside. She was just one of those people who lit up any room she bustled into. Yes, she could be brisk and bossy but she was always pleasant with it, and most people seemed to like it, liked being told what to do, liked her no-nonsense approach. And more often than not, they’d be left with a daft smile still plastered across their face long after she’d blown her way through.

I knew at the time, I was just a kid and I weren’t so important, but it didn’t stop me imagining that one day I could be just like her and that all the neighbours would be talking about me in the same way. But you know what they say, hindsight’s a wonderful thing and be careful what you wish for and all that. Because, as it would turn out, that’s exactly what happened. Don’t worry though, we’ll get to all that later, I’m sure.

In the meantime, how’s this for a start—I remember one February when the snow was humming down thick and fast, Mum had finished baking the bread and had a bit of dough leftover. I asked her if I could eat it raw, but she refused me in no uncertain terms. Instead, she made it into a couple of platted rolls and brushed them with a beaten egg before putting them in the oven. Once they were done, she sent me off to give them to the snow-powdered POWs who were clearing the hedges outside.

There were two of them, Germans I think, been working without stop all morning. I was too shy to say anything, so I just held out the steaming wrapped rolls that had been warming my hands. The one who took them nodded a thanks, and even today I remember his eyes. They were a brilliant blue, so pure against the white all around us, and although he managed a smile, there was no hiding the deep-set loneliness in them. Just like the look in the eyes of the scraggly old donkey that was forever tied to the walnut tree on Weasel's farm.

As I went to leave, I felt a hand rest on my shoulder causing me to let out a startled cloud of breath. When I turned to meet those sorrowful eyes, the prisoner slipped his hand inside his pocket and pulled out a small wooden chicken he'd carved. Without saying anything, he showed me how it worked. How you had to pull a small knotted-string at the bottom to make the chicken bob his head down as if pecking for grain. He made me hold my palm out flat and then made the chicken's little wooden beak tap, tap, tap at my hand. It tickled some, and the way it moved was just like that of a real chicken. It caused me to giggle and made the top of his red cheeks press against his eyes as he smiled, and I swear there was a brief sparkle in them that seemed to fade as quickly as it appeared. I honestly didn't know what to say when he passed it to me and folded my hand around it; my chest was tingling with absolute joy.

When I got back in, Mum was waiting.

What's that he give you? she said, hand outstretched.

I hesitated. Then cursed myself for not being more secretive, knowing full well she'd have been peering out the window.

Come on, give it here. Whatever it is, you ent deserving of it.

Wordlessly, I handed it over and never did see it again.

My mum gave a weary sigh and a shake of the head. I could feel my bottom lip go and the lump rise in my throat. I didn't want her to see me cry, so I went to my room. And I wouldn’t say I was wrong in thinking at that time, in that place, there were two lonely, solemn souls secretly shedding tears that longed for lost love.

At that age, why I wasn’t deserving of having the toy I could only guess. I was a quiet kid who did what she was told without fuss. I wasn’t the brightest of buttons, but I was definitely a hard worker. And I was at least bright enough to realise my four brothers didn't get treated with such short shrift.

I was surrounded by two brothers either side of my age until I was 12, so it also occurred to me that perhaps I was deserving of the special treatment cos I was a girl. Maybe she’d never wanted me. I mean, I was dressed as a boy for most of my childhood. There was no gymslip for me—it was shorts, shirt and necktie, and off to school I went, when in truth I'd always preferred ribbons.

But this theory fell by the wayside when the sixth of my siblings came along. It took us all by surprise when out popped little Valerie. We’d all just been assuming it would be another boy going by my parent’s track record.

It left me quite confused for a while. Half of me was excited—another girl—I wasn’t alone anymore. But the other half was fearful, knowing what was in store for her. I also thought that maybe we could help each other, be partners and get through things together, a burden shared and all that.

However, my fears were for nothing, as my mum was absolutely smitten with her. I never did harbour a bad thought about Valerie, but that doesn’t mean I didn't feel jealous or that it wasn’t jarring to see them together, my mother cooing and snuggling her face into her belly. She was ever so proud of her and never shy in letting all and sundry know it. She even had a man come round with a camera every so often to have Valerie’s picture done, which weren’t so cheap in those days. She'd dress her up all nice, polish her tiny shoes, brush the few teeth she had and do her hair with one of my ribbons. The man would also make a fuss over her—and rightly so, as there was no denying she was a proper little cutie. On the first few occasions he came over, he spied me hovering behind the door and asked if I was to have my photo done too.

What? Nah, not her, my mum would say. Be a waste on an ugly ol' stick like that.

That’s honestly what she used to say—I mean, can you even believe it. Imagine, saying something like that, not just to a kid, but to your own daughter. I don't know who was more embarrassed, the man or me. But even being in the presence of a flustered and blushing near-stranger didn't stop her.

I don't know what happened to that one, she'd carry on as if I weren't there, must’ve also been behind the door when they were giving out the looks, she said, before roaring away at her own joke.

As a kid, adults are like gods, they are never wrong and never lie—only kids do those things, so I accepted everything that came from them like it was the gospel itself. I could plainly see it myself that Valerie was all pretty and cute, and worthy of being fussed over, and so I also accepted the truth that—I wasn’t.

Now, just because I accepted it, it didn’t mean it was any less crushing and the heartache any less painful. I’d tell myself that being one face in a family of many was always going to mean there were times when someone would feel left out. However, being in a big family was probably also my saving grace. Partly cos it meant there was always some kind of distraction going on to help steer your thoughts away from the troubled waters, and also because of our family rule—that each kid was responsible for the next one down in age. And so what this meant was, was that I had my very own hero looking out for me when no one else would.

5

Ribbons in My Hair

Aged 9 (1954)

Billy, being only a year and a half older, was my partner in crime for most of my earliest memories. He looked out for me, fussed over me, protected me. Admittedly, this was partly due to him being duty-bound to the role, but I always felt it was more than that, that he had a naturally caring heart, even when it came to looking after his annoying kid sister.

My mum loved to cook all year round, so even in the summer, she’d be pleasing everyone with her platted rolls and scones delivered by us kids. She even baked for the local pub down the road. They gave her old milk tins for collecting blackberries, and in return, she’d bake them apple and blackberry pies. Of course, the donkey work of picking the berries was done by us kids. Not that we minded, it was always such a grand adventure when we were allowed to roam the Norfolk countryside. As a child, it was like we had a whole world to explore, and seemingly all to ourselves. On the occasions when we did meet someone, it was always a great thrill. Although, being a shy child, at first I was usually a bit skittish. However, I always felt safe when I had my hero with me.

One such time, Billy and me had been sent out picking and managed to find ourselves all the way down by the airfield. We’d been at it for a good hour, our fingers and mouths stained purple, our milk tins half empty but our bellies half full. It was a bright summer’s day with insects buzzing lazily on a breeze so thick you thought you could taste it. The sun was warm on your skin, but not so hot that you felt all icky under your clothes. Birds hopped in and out of the hedgerow, busily chattering away with their nonsensical chirps.

I’d reached a gap in the hedge when I first saw them across the way. The hole, large enough for a pony to pass through, was a tangle of twigs and leaves leading onto a grassy field. The field stretched all the way to a steel fence with great menacing rolls of barbed wire sat on top of it. This marked the boundary of the American airbase, RAF Sculthorpe.

We hadn't spoken for some minutes, both lost in our daydreams, enjoying the heavy summer warmth. I was deep into my usual fantasy of pretending I was out on a hack on my very own horse—Bessie the bay roan with a white blaze and four white socks. But I was snapped out of it in an instant when I saw the first one. One second it was there, the next it was gone. I craned my head forward, squinting.

Oy, was all Billy said when he realised I was dawdling. He beckoned me on with a nod of his head, but I paid him no mind, determined not to miss it should it happen again.

I heard him let out a weary sigh. What you gawping at anyhow?

I… don't know.

Well, come on then.

I risked a quick glance at him. He glared back, brow furrowed, trying to be all serious, but his purple-stained mouth made him look like more like a toddler who’d found his mother’s make-up bag, than the stern big brother he was imagining.

I promised myself I'd give it up after the count of five, but by three it happened again.

There. There. I saw it again. I pointed, not daring to take my eyes from the spot. There was no mistaking it this time. I'd seen… something. No more than head height to a child. There, and then just as quickly not.

Billy ambled over, all huffing and gruffing. What? What was there?

Something in the air, something sparkly. I saw it.

You ent seeing fairies again are yuh?

No. I really saw it. I really did this time.

He stood, shoulders slumped, in no mood to humour his annoying younger sister.

There. Again. My arm was shaking, I was pointing so hard. Look! And another one. And there. I was so happy I clapped.

What? What is it? he said, shielding his eyes with a purple hand. I don't see nothin.

I could tell from the edge in his voice that I had him now. He’d bought his ticket, he was on board, his interest had been got and he was in for the adventure—whatever it would turn out to be.

There! And they're coming this way, and I started forward.

Billy reached out for my shoulder, Careful yet.

It's all right, come on. I shrugged free, causing berries to tumble from his tin. But I didn’t care because I was off. I ducked through the hole in the hedge, leapt the overgrown ditch, and went galloping across that field.

Oy. Rosemary. Come back, comeback this minute.

But I paid him no mind, and the next thing I knew he was giving chase.

Soon the both of us were racing across the grassy scrub. I could see hundreds of them now, flittering and glittering in the breeze. The first one I managed to touch appeared in front of me in a blink. I reached up too late and felt it flick against my hand with a fishtail slap.

Grab it, Billy. Grab it.

What? Where? he said, turning on the spot. Wait… I see it! I see it! he shouted. And just like that, he remembered he too was still but a child.

I watched him tear about in zigzags, chasing the tumbling silver eel that danced in the wind, teasing and turning just out of his reach. I certainly laughed some—laughed until I couldn’t see through my tears. With his frustrations gone, Billy was laughing too, and he wouldn't give it up. He must have run a marathon and a half, but still couldn't get hold of the blighter. Eventually, he stopped, bent over double, trying to get his breath.

Don't worry, look, there's more, there's hundreds more! Come on. I waved him on as I skipped towards the swirling swarm of silver.

Once we were amongst them proper, it was impossible not to catch them as the wind pressed them against our clothes and wrapped them around our legs. Even so, we mostly jumped for the ones teasing us in the air, then stuffed the crinkled strips of foil in our pockets until they were bulging.

We went back the next day armed with potato sacks, still not knowing what we were collecting or even why. We managed to fill both our sacks and drag them home. In those days nothing was wasted; folks always found a good use for anything and everything. And so we went back a third time, but this was the day the man with the Alsatian came and we finally discovered the truth about our spoils.

The dog was huge. It had a long dark muzzle, thick shaggy coat, and pointed ears. It pulled against the leash, its front legs rising into the air, causing it to let out a series of rasping chokes like some sort of possessed demon. But worst of all was its eyes and the way they locked onto us, tracking our every movement.

So you're the culprits, came the airmen's American accent. Stealing from the US Air Force, tut, tut.

We didn't know what to say.

We just stood there, either side of the potato sack, caught silver-handed.

The man didn't sound as angry as I thought he might, but it didn't matter because I knew we'd be in for it when we got home. Half of me was praying for him to loose the dog and put us out of our misery.

The first time we lugged home sacks of the wind’s silver treasure, Dad had been sat on the front wall rolling a cigarette.

What you got? he said without looking up.

Dunno, replied Billy.

Where d’you get it? came the next weary question.

Found it.

Where?

In a field. We waited for the next one, but it didn’t come, so we continued dragging the sacks round to the coal shed.

However, being brought home in shame by a man in uniform meant a damn good hiding and no mistake. Dad was a